


Lines in Your Skin

by xxenjoy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Jaskier, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurities, M/M, Scars, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxenjoy/pseuds/xxenjoy
Summary: Before Jaskier came into his life,he never cared what his body looked like, but with Jaskier next to him, soft and young andbeautifulGeralt develops a complex.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 339





	Lines in Your Skin

It's a sick sort of irony that Geralt never worried about certain vanities _before_ Jaskier came into his life. 

It starts with little things; the state he comes back in after a hunt, the transformation he goes through when he takes his potions, the colour of his hair - all things that once were just an insignificant part of who he is. But Jaskier is youthful and soft and beautiful and Geralt feels old and broken next to him. Before him, it didn’t matter who saw him or in what state or what they thought about him. His body was just another tool, there to eat and sleep and fight and fuck and what it looked like didn't concern him in the slightest. 

The only time he ever cared was when people cowered in the streets, but even then he was adjusting to that now it’s become just another thing he tries not to think too much about. It only matters now if it means he’s denied housing or entrance somewhere and Jaskier usually sees to making sure that doesn’t happen. 

Before Jaskier, even the lovers he took saw him fully nude and never gave it a second thought. If they did, it was to ask about the scars, to wonder where they came from and there was a time when Geralt was happy to tell those stories. These days, the only time he’s naked is if he’s alone to bathe. 

The first time Jaskier tries to get him into a bath, Geralt nearly kicks him out of their room. 

Geralt is disgusting, covered in kikimore blood after having to take the thing out from underneath it. He wants nothing more than a peaceful bath alone, but he wrenches his shoulder in an ill-timed strike and Jaskier is worrying over him. He will hardly let Geralt out of his sight, which is going to make bathing impossible, but what worries him most is when Jaskier insists on washing his hair because _you can't wash yourself properly with one arm_.

Geralt’s blood runs cold and his mind races to come up with any excuse not to get in that bath. His breath comes in short, shallow bursts and he eyes the door as Jaskier busies himself with preparing soaps and oils and all sorts of things Geralt deems unnecessary. He just wants to be clean without all the fuss and muss of whatever this all is. 

Geralt only relents when he moves to unclasp his armour and pain shoots through his shoulder. Jaskier, to his credit, doesn’t gloat or even say much of anything as he gets Geralt out of his armour, and, mortifyingly, his clothes. 

When he gets into the tub, he sinks as low as he can in the water, thankful when it grows murky, obscuring the lower half of his body. Jaskier pays it little attention, more focused on the bucket of clean water at his feet. He soaps up Geralt’s hair, picking through the tangles like he’s always done it and rinsing the soap out once he’s finished. The first chance he gets, Geralt shoos him from the room so he can get out of the cooling water and dress himself before he crawls out of his skin. 

What makes things difficult is that Jaskier always seems intent on seeing as much of him as possible at any given time. Geralt knows there’s an inherent curiosity about Witchers and he can hardly blame Jaskier for wanting to know more about his companion, but there are things he doesn’t want him to know. In the short time they’ve been together, Geralt has grown begrudgingly attached to the bard and he doesn’t want Jaskier running in the other direction when he learns who he really is. 

What’s worse is that for possibly the first time in his life, he wants Jaskier to know these things about him. He wants, more than anything, to be able to be comfortable around him because Jaskier is always so carefree with him. The way Jaskier looks at him sometimes sparks a fire deep within him and the way he touches him with such easy affection shatters him from the inside out. 

But how can he let him, knowing it would scare him off? Even the thought of getting naked in front of him quells the strongest rush of lust. 

Then one night, he’s hurt badly after being blindsided by an alp. He staggers back to the inn, breathless and aching. Thankfully, Jaskier isn’t in the room when he returns, so Geralt collapses onto the bed without having Jaskier worrying over him. The relief is short-lived when Jaskier bursts into the room and even with his eyes shut, Geralt can tell he isn’t happy. 

"Geralt!" There’s the quick thud of footsteps and then Jaskier is at his side, one hand sliding under his back to ease him into a somewhat upright position. 

Geralt groans as his body shifts but he cooperates well enough to have cushions piled behind them and he’s happier once he’s allowed to lean against them. Jaskier touches his face and runs his hands frantically all over him, checking to make sure he’s alright. He isn’t, but there isn’t much damage to his armour, so Jaskier shouldn't be able to tell that. And anyway, he will be fine, but explaining that to a panicked Jaskier takes more energy than he has right now. So he sits quietly and lets Jaskier fawn over him. Until he starts playing with the clasps on his armour. 

He doesn’t stop him, but his entire body stiffens with each piece that’s stripped away and while Jaskier seems much calmer with a task to occupy him, Geralt is _not_. His heart beats a little too quickly and his fingers itch to grab at Jaskier’s wrists and pull him away, unsure of how far he’ll take this. But he’s too tired to stop him and he doesn’t want to hurt him. But he doesn’t want Jaskier to see him, either - especially like this. 

There are deep gashes on the underside of his arms and he knows his back is bruised even if he can’t see it. Jaskier would be horrified. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and Jaskier pauses, his fingers faltering on a pauldron.

“Geralt? Your heart is racing, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Potions,” he chokes out. It’s a lie, but only partway. Black Blood is still coursing through his veins - yet another reason for Jaskier not to look at him. The little sigh he gets in response is a clear indication Jaskier doesn’t believe him, but he continues in his work anyway.

Jaskier pales when he feels the sleeve of Geralt’s shirt, no doubt drenched in blood, and when he pulls his hand away and finds it black, he looks horrified. Geralt clenches his jaw and waits for the inevitable exclamation of horror, but it doesn’t come. And despite the look on Jaskier’s face, he doesn’t smell disgusted. He doesn’t even smell scared. The scent is off slightly, mixed with something Geralt can’t quite place, but if he had to name it, he’d say Jaskier was _worried_. 

He doesn’t pull away or scream, but lifts the hem of Geralt’s shirt, pressing one palm against his back to help him ease forward. And Geralt doesn’t understand. His brothers and Vesemir have patched him up more times than he can count, but that’s different. Even healers shy away from him when he’s in this state. So why is Jaskier, a _bard_ so at ease with him?

Even with his shirt added to the mess on the floor, Geralt can’t relax. Jaskier can see his whole chest now and if he leans too far forward, he’ll be able to see his back where he’d been thrown against the tree. Bruising like that looks bad at the best of times, but combined with Black Blood, it’s bound to look downright terrifying. 

He wants so badly to let Jaskier draw him in and soothe him, but he can’t. Losing him to something like this would be too much. 

But of course, Jaskier mistakenly thinks it’s the elixirs that keep him so stiff and alert and he guides him back against the cushions, adjusting to sit at his side. He runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair and rubs his shoulders to try and ease some of the tension. It’s a kindness Geralt doesn’t deserve and he shudders as Jaskier’s hand slides around his back. 

He lets himself be tipped forward only because Jaskier is determined and right now Geralt doesn’t have the strength to resist him. 

He keeps his breathing as steady as he can, waiting for the moment when Jaskier sees the bruising, but nothing happens. Jaskier is much more gentle as his hands slip down, soothing over the darkening skin, but he doesn't pull away and his scent remains untouched by disgust. 

Geralt lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It's not until Jaskier's fingers slip over one of the thick, tough scars on his shoulder that Geralt flinches away. Jaskier withdraws quickly, apologetically. 

"Sorry," he breathes, "did that hurt?" Geralt wants to tell him that it hasn't hurt in years, but he just shakes his head in silence. He thinks Jaskier will be upset with him, but when the bard pushes himself up off the bed and disappears, he returns shortly with a mug of ale and a warm washcloth. 

The next time, things are different. Jaskier has seen him and he didn't run away and he's still here now, so that must mean something. Geralt agrees to let him bathe him without a fuss and this time, he doesn't dread taking his clothes off in front of him. He even lets Jaskier watch, though to say he _lets_ him is a bit of a stretch. The room is small, especially with the bath, and Jaskier's eyes have been tracking him since he returned. 

He doesn't mind this time. He likes the feeling of having Jaskier's eyes on him and even as he pulls his shirt up over his head, the anxiety isn't as bad as before. 

He climbs into the bath and sinks into the warm water, shutting his eyes and leaning back against the frame. Jaskier's hands find him quickly, working clean water through his hair and adding scented oils that smell like him. Geralt isn't sure he understands the gesture, nor the point of it, but he likes the idea of walking around smelling like Jaskier. 

"It'll make you more appealing to the locals," Jaskier explains. Geralt doubts that, but he appreciates it all the same. 

Jaskier is freer with his affections than anyone else Geralt knows and it took him time to adjust to that. He's still adjusting to that. Like the way Jaskier curls up to him when they make camp even when the night air is arguably too warm for cuddling. Or when he drapes himself over him when he's drunk. Or sings to him when they're alone - or when they’re not. But tonight, Jaskier sings of new things. Things that make Geralt's stomach twist in the most confusing ways. 

He sings just for him of the lines in his skin and Geralt settles under his hands despite the new energy buzzing under his skin.

And then the songs are not just for him. Jaskier writes ballads praising his bravery and worshipping the scars Geralt hates so much. And when they're alone, Jaskier seeks them out, running his fingers over the discoloured skin like Geralt is something precious, something to be handled with care. 

And slowly, as Jaskier's songs draw attention and praise, Geralt adjusts to the idea of people seeing him again. To the idea of _Jaskier_ seeing him. After a time, he finds himself looking forward to coming back to whatever place they find themselves in and to getting Jaskier's hands on him. 

Things change when Jaskier realizes how much he enjoys it. It happens slowly and then all at once; they've had this routine now for what feels like forever, but it's not until one fateful night that Jaskier realizes how much Geralt likes it. He doesn't mean to groan as Jaskier's fingers press in against the base of his skull, but it comes out anyway. He's a little drunk, so he doesn't even try to deny it and he knows Jaskier heard him anyway. 

After that, Jaskier pushes the boundaries between them. He’ll let his touch linger, fingertips soft and light against his skin. And when Geralt is in the bath, Jaskier will slide his palms lower than necessary, sometimes dipping just below the edge of the water and Geralt will hold his breath. When they sit together, Jaskier will set his hand on Geralt’s thigh, rubbing softly, almost absently as he works on whatever it is he’s doing. Despite being fully clothed when it happens, this affects Geralt more than anything and he has to focus hard on anything else to keep himself from reacting to the touch. 

Then one night, he's preoccupied. They'd been drunk at the inn last night and after a round of sappy love songs, Jaskier had sprawled in his lap, smiling dopily up at him. He'd slipped an arm around his neck and pulled himself up so he was close, _so close_ and Geralt could feel his breath on his skin, smell the vodka on his lips. And he'd wanted so badly to kiss him. And Jaskier, free and loving and wonderful, had been so close, pulling himself within inches of Geralt's mouth before being so rudely interrupted by one of his admirers. 

If Geralt hadn't been so stunned, he might have been angry. And now he's just mournful that they were interrupted. He can't stop thinking about it, even as he plunges his sword between the eyes of a wyvern, his thoughts are of Jaskier. 

So when he gets back to the inn, he considers staying downstairs for the evening, but he finds himself climbing the stairs to their room anyway. He's already doing a terrible job of not thinking about it when he gets up to the room to find a bath drawn for him already. The scent of Jaskier's salts and oils hits his nose immediately and he shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

Soft hands find his shoulders and Geralt hears the door click shut behind him as Jaskier directs him toward the bath. Jaskier lifts his shirt up over his head, brushing his fingers down his sides again as he drops Geralt's shirt to the ground. He slips away to let Geralt finish undressing and a part of him wishes he would stay and finish what he started. But he shouldn't want that so instead, he strips purposefully, aware, with every motion, that Jaskier is watching him. 

But now it doesn't feel wrong. It's exciting to know that Jaskier wants to see him; that he's seen the scars and the bruises and the wounds when they're fresh and he still wants to see him like this. So he's not doing a very good job of pushing down his feelings as Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. He's focused more on Jaskier's fingers and the way they press into his muscle; it feels good, it feels _too_ good, but Geralt doesn't want him to stop. Not yet. 

Jaskier tips his head back, cradling it with one hand as the other slips around the side of his neck. His thumb brushes Geralt's throat and a soft breathy sigh escapes him. Jaskier hums in response and both his hands push lower down his chest. Geralt presses into the touch, arching off the side of the tub and when the feeling goes straight to his cock, he freezes and he knows Jaskier can feel it. 

Geralt silently curses himself as Jaskier's hands pull away from his body. He wasn't supposed to let this happen. He's been doing so well at distancing himself, right up until now. He’s so occupied thinking about what he did wrong that he doesn't realize when Jaskier returns with a sheet for him to dry off. 

Geralt gets out obediently, letting Jaskeir wrap him in the sheet and tug him close. Jaskier rubs the linen over his skin and Geralt wants to pull away, the same feelings of shame and inadequacy creeping up on him, but Jaskier won't let him. He holds him close, drops the sheet and takes a step back, reaching out for Geralt's hands to tug him after him. 

He's still damp and his hair drips down his back, but Geralt follows and allows himself to be maneuvered onto the bed between Jaskier's legs, his back against Jaskier’s chest. 

"Just relax," Jaskier hums, pressing his nose against his ear. "It's just me." 

_That's the problem_ , Geralt thinks but he lays against him anyway. Jaskier doesn't have the heightened senses he does, but he's alert and he picks up on things quickly, he'll be able to tell that Geralt is struggling with this like he did before. 

He shuts his eyes and tries not to think about it as Jaskier's hands find the familiar dips and planes of his chest, brushing lightly over his skin. 

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Jaskier asks. Geralt grumbles at him, but Jaskier is unfazed, brushing his hands lower, past his hips and along his thighs to push them apart. Geralt's cock gives a twitch of interest, but if Jaskier notices, he doesn't acknowledge it. 

"Geralt," he prompts again, but Geralt says nothing. "Fine. You're lucky I like the strong, silent type." He huffs a little laugh into Geralt's hair and brushes his fingertips along the insides on his thighs and Geralt is only so strong. 

His hips twitch as Jaskier's fingers slide over them, pressing into the sensitive skin. Heat rolls through his body and he knows he shouldn't want this, he knows Jaskier is just helping in his own way. Except maybe he's not because he did almost kiss him. Though he was drunk, but he was so soft and pliant in Geralt's lap and the way he looked at him-

"Jaskier?"

"Shh, darling, let me take care of you." He presses his nose into Geralt's hair and he breathes slowly, humming at first. But he seems to distract himself from the song, mumbling against the back of Geralt's head. 

"I know you don't like them," he breathes, running his fingers along the length of a thin, bright scar on Geralt’s thigh, "but I do. They make you who you are." He goes on about how brave he is and how strong and Geralt squirms uncomfortably under the praise. At first, he sounds like he's talking out his ass, but his hands are soft and smooth and when he presses his lips to Geralt's shoulder, he switches tracks. 

His fingers seek out the rough lines of his scars again, running along them almost lovingly as he whispers against his skin. 

"You're beautiful," he breathes. It's a far cry from the truth, Geralt knows, but something about the way Jaskier says it makes him want to believe it. He's still recovering from the surprise when Jaskier leans in against his ear, pushing his hair out of the way with his nose. "I want to kiss you," he says and Geralt squirms. The heat that settled low in his gut spreads up, burning into his chest. 

He squirms as Jaskier's hands move up, sliding over his cheek and Jaskier turns his head toward him. Geralt stiffens as Jaskier's lips touch his, afraid he'll pull away and then when he doesn't, Geralt softens again and presses back against his chest. 

Jaskier kisses like he expected him to, soft and passionate without trying too hard. And genuine. Jaskier is a performer at heart, but he knows when to quit the act and right now he's nothing if not sincere. When he pulls away, Geralt lets out a soft whine at the loss, but Jaskier's lips seek out the sensitive spot behind his jaw, slipping lower down his neck and out across his shoulders. 

His hands move in time, brushing lower toward his hips. He's intentionally light about it, letting his fingers drift almost above his skin and Geralt's hips rise of their own volition, pressing up to feel the warmth of Jaskier's hands against him. 

"Can I touch you?" Jaskier asks and Geralt breathes out a shaky _yes_ almost instantly. 

He shudders as Jaskier’s hands press more firmly against his hips, twitching with impatience. He wants this, he wants Jaskier, and it seems stupid to deny himself what he's wanted for so long when Jaskier is right here offering, despite the scars and the bad attitude.

Jaskier is quiet for once as he slips one hand lower, curling around the base of Geralt's cock. Geralt is already hard, has been for some time under Jaskier's attention and it feels good to finally have some semblance of relief. He tries not to push, not to force the touch, but Jaskier's hand feels too good on him and he can't help but jerk up against him. 

"That's it darling, just like that." 

Geralt drops his head back, rolling against Jaskier's shoulder and he can feel the way Jaskier smiles against him. Jaskier grips him more firmly, stroking as well as he can from the base of him right up to the tip. He runs the pad of his thumb over his head and Geralt very nearly whimpers. 

He wants so badly and despite all his common sense telling him that fucking Jaskier is a bad idea, he can't help himself. He leans into Jaskier's kisses, rolls his hips with the rise and fall of his hand and when Jaskier starts talking again, it nearly undoes him. 

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, "and gods you're huge. Fuck, Geralt look at you. You're stunning-" Jaskier squeezes around the head of his cock and Geralt's thighs twitch, jerking hard against Jaskier's. 

Jaskier tells him he's good, tells him he's beautiful and Geralt soaks it all up, wants so desperately to believe it. When he shifts, pressing himself back against Jaskier’s chest, he can feel the jut of Jaskier’s cock, pressing into his lower back and his cock throbs. Heat rolls through him and he rolls his head back on Jaskier’s shoulder. The realization that Jaskier is turned on affects him in ways he didn’t exact and now that he notices it, the scent of his arousal is overwhelming. 

His own cock gives a twitch and when Jaskier's hand slips down again, his fingers are slick with precome. He slides down again and Geralt thrusts up, the coil of heat tightening in his gut. He presses his hands to Jaskier's thighs as he creeps closer to the edge, digging his fingers into the soft silk of his trousers. 

He wants him naked, wants to feel his skin against him but he settles for tipping his head up, nipping against the line of his jaw. Jaskier lets out a breathy moan and strokes him more quickly. He's not trying to, but his hips roll against Geralt's back and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge. Jaskier gets him off with a couple of quick tugs and Geralt's legs shake against him as he rides through it. 

Jaskier strokes him through, kissing his neck and running his fingers through his hair. He's clearly aroused and he slips his fingers over the head of Geralt's cock, sliding through his spend until it's too sensitive and Geralt gives a groan of impatience. 

Jaskier's hand settles against his, tracing little wet circles into the skin and Geralt slumps against him, boneless and exhausted. He savours the soft words, the delicate fingers brushing through his hair, and he shuts his eyes as his breathing slows to normal. 

"You didn't come," he breathes and Jaskier hums thoughtfully. 

"That’s alright love, not tonight."

"Hmm." 

Jaskier laughs as he shifts behind him, sliding out to climb up off the bed. The sight of him, hard in his trousers, sends a rush through Geralt and he slips a little lower down the bed. He would argue, pull Jaskier down against him and bring him off himself, but he's too tired now. He watches as Jaskier crosses to the bath, dipping a scrap of linen into the water. 

Tomorrow, he thinks, his eyes growing heavy. He'll repay the favour in the morning.


End file.
